Worth the price? I don't think so...

          Whenever I'm having a tough day, I duck into a shoe store and spend the next hour trying on all the size 8 shoes on the clearance rack. I leave after finding the best deal, feeling like the weight of the world is off my shoulders.  

            So when I saw an article in a magazine about why it's worth it to buy a pair of $595 basic black pumps, I was intrigued.

            These $595 shoes are made by Manolo Blahnik, one of the most respected shoe makers in the world. The pump's heel comes in a variety of heights and in different materials, including suede and snakeskin.

            But $595?

            That's a La-Z-Boy recliner.

            The writer called the shoe an investment. Stocks and bonds are investments. Diamonds and real estate are investments. Not shoes. But for the sake of argument, let's go with their suggestion.

            If you buy a $595 pair of shoes and wear them three days a week for one year, they claim, that's only $4 per wearing. Wear those same shoes for five years, and that brings the price down to 76 cents per wear.

            Obviously this writer has never actually talked to a woman who loves shoes.

            Rabid shoe-a-holics would never wear the same pair of shoes three times a week for five years. Women like to change their shoes to match the outfit they're wearing.

            That's the reason we have 10 different pairs of black shoes. The flat and short-heeled pumps go with our slacks and the tall heels go with a dress. That's also the reason why we have shoes in a variety of colors, including the same style shoe in ivory, tan and white.

            If I bought Manolo Blahnik shoes using that same philosophy, I'm talking an entire living room of La-Z-Boy recliners.  

            That scenario also assumes I'd pay full price for shoes. Few shoe lovers pay full price because we love bragging about our shoe coups.

            "See these sandals? Just $14.95 on the clearance rack," we'll whisper to friends.

            Some shoppers love the prestige that comes along with paying a lot of money for a pair of shoes. Just like with $140 Jordan sneakers and $169.95 Coach purses, wearing a pair of Manolo Blahnik shoes is supposed to put you in that envious category of someone who can afford expensive shoes.

            I'd rather have the La-Z-Boy.

Shoe Psychology

            Later in the article, the author tried to sell readers on the shoe's quality. The Manolo Blahnik BB pumps are made of reflective "speechio" leather, making the shoe scuff resistant.

            First of all, what's "speechio" leather? I think shoe snobs made up that description – a word I can't find a definition for anywhere – to justify spending $595 on a pair of their shoes.

            As I closed the magazine, I realized the writer of this article doesn't quite understand the psychology behind how women shop for shoes.

            They obviously never talked to a woman who stumbles onto a year-end shoe clearance sale. The thrill of finding that kind of sale releases the same feel-good endorphins as landing the biggest catfish of the day or realizing the tickets you won to the Texans game are on the 50-yard line.

            Or finding a $100 pair of black pumps on the 75 percent off rack.

            That's worth more than a therapy session and you can walk away in those brand-new pumps with your head held high, knowing you only paid $25 for those babies.

            Now that's worth it.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

The importance of seasonal friends

            The three of us were connected through children and activities, and I probably never would've met these three wonderful women if it hadn't been for our willingness to be the carpool driver or the chaperone on a Scouting or church adventure.

            Cindy, Diane and Patty didn't know each other, but I knew them, and they have positively impacted my life. We weren't what the dictionary would define as close friends, but our paths crossed many times over the past 20 years.

            We were usually in a rush, hurrying children in and out of mini-vans, on our way to the next sporting event or after-school activity.

            With three boys, Cindy Zerwas and I swapped stories of life in a house of guys, including finding out our boys thought it would be an adventure to jump out of windows onto mattresses on the front lawn.

            Patty Bishop has three daughters so our daily routines were quite different – hers was pink bows and music lessons and mine was stinky sneakers and baseball practice.

            Diane Uhlig is the mom of three boys, and we swapped stories of living in a wild house where noise and basketballs were constant companions. We also shared the fretting over helping our boys pack for a summer Scouting trip to the Boundary Waters in Minnesota.   

            I often take those types of seasonal friendships for granted, thinking those quick conversations aren't memory makers.

            But looking back, the friends I saw occasionally added so much to my life because they marked milestones, causing me to realize how quickly time was speeding past.

            An encounter in the grocery store with these women put me into fast forward mode, and I'd go back over the past few years into the present tense. I'd find myself going down memory lane, remembering 2-year-old Christopher Uhlig with a sun hat, floaties and a swim ring.

            When I heard Danielle Bishop was finishing up college, I couldn't believe that little girl who played in the church choir with her dad was almost finished with her education. And Cindy Zerwas and I were both grandmothers – hard to believe our rambunctious boys were now mature, grown men.

Reconnecting

            Over the past couple of weeks, I've caught up with their lives through social media. That's how I found out Patty's husband, Mike, recently went through a life-saving kidney transplant after waiting months for a donor.

            That's also how I found out Diane's husband, Dave, is battling pancreatic cancer and that Diane is a breast cancer survivor.

            It's for Cindy, though, that my heart aches. She lost a valiant battle with brain cancer this week, leaving behind dozens of friends, her children, grandchildren, husband and loved ones.

            All three faced the hardships in their lives with a brave face, humor and grace. Looking back on our conversations, I realized that's the same way they handled being a parent. So it was no surprise that through their writings on Facebook, that was how they and their families faced incredibly difficult obstacles.

            When we don't see friends on a regular basis, their bad news hits us like a stone wall. When we walk away, what's left are snippets – laughter, the pride in their voices when they talked about their children and the promise to see each other soon.

            For Cindy, I no longer can keep that promise. But for Patty and Diane, I can.

            As much as I treasure friends I see all the time, it's the seasonal friends who help us recognize the giant milestones in our lives. They are our memory catchers.  

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

The box of 64

            It's back-to-school shopping time, and I'm stocking up as the sales prices are kind. While making my way down a crowded aisle, I spotted the Cadillac of Crayons, the box of 64.

            I dreamed about that yellow and green box as a kid; but with seven children in our family, none of us wanted to stretch the budget too far.

            We all got the box of eight crayons and, when we were older, the box of 16. I remember wanting that box of 64 more than any other school supply item, but I knew it was too expensive.

            When I was in the second grade, my classmate, Lisa, was the only one with the box of 64. At coloring time, Lisa would pull out that big box and flip open the top to reveal a rainbow of colors.

            The most incredible aspect of the box of 64 was the built-in sharpener. Crayons could look perfect all the time because of that nifty tool. Lisa, though, refused to share her sharpener.

            Her family had more money than the rest of us at St. Joe's. No hand-me-down school uniforms for her.

            No saddle oxford's that looked good until the brush-on shoe polish wore off.

            No box of eight crayons. She had the most coveted item in the room – the box of 64.

            I didn't consider that Lisa's parents wanted to encourage her creativity. All my second-grade brain knew was if you had the box of 64, you were the luckiest kid around.

            During the year, I came to realize that Lisa was a selfish creep, and there was no way I'd ever ask to borrow her sharpener, not even when the tips of my crayons were as flat as a board. Still, whenever she'd open that box and I'd see all those sharp crayons, I'd feel a twinge of jealousy.

 

That Box of 64

            When my eldest son started school, I remember our first school supply shopping trip. I was so excited, but he was only interested in going to the playground when we were finished shopping.

            Stacked next to the pencils were the crayons and, as impressive as I remembered it, the box of 64. I started to put the box in my basket and then I stopped, realizing who really wanted all those colors.  

            The person who wanted the box of 64 was that 8-year-old girl with the scuffed shoes who remembered shyly asking the snottiest girl in class if she could borrow her crayon sharpener. It was the girl who felt second-class when that stingy girl turned up her nose and pretended not to hear.

            So I picked up the box of 64 and a box of 16 and showed them both to my son.  

            "Which one do you want?" I asked, fully prepared to give him philosophical reasons on why more is not better and that life is more than the number of crayons in a box. It's about sharing what we have and caring about other people's feelings

            He looked at the two boxes and pointed at the smaller box.

            "Less to carrry," he said.

            In more ways than he knew, my little boy was right.

            Many of the burdens and broken wishes we carry are the ones we choose to put on our backs. That day, I walked away from the box of 64 with no regrets, knowing my son would be happy with the box of 16.

            And so, finally, would I.

      This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

A Quirkly Little Place Called Montrose

            Facebook's a great place to keep up with friends, find classmates and waste time. Sometimes, though, the social media site allows me to reconnect with friends and acquaintances.

            Such was the case when I caught up with Wayne and Theresa Vincent. When we lived in Richmond, we were usually in a hurry. Conversations were often in a parking lot with little time for more than the basics.

            Through Facebook, I found that Theresa travels for her job, and her writings are beautifully descriptive of the places she's visiting. While exchanging travel experiences online, Theresa suggested we get together for dinner.

            It wasn't until I asked for her house address that I realized they'd moved into Houston. Once their children all went off to college, the Vincents fulfilled a long-held dream of Theresa's to move into the city.

            Theresa loves museums, art, plays and the opportunity to walk to the grocery store, and she wanted to take advantage of what Houston has to offer without fighting big-city traffic.

            Houston's eclectic Montrose area is where they chose to set up housekeeping, and, during my visit, I could understand why.  

            Montrose is a quiet, quirky part of Houston. Numerous vintage clothing stores and coffee bars line the main streets. Instead of generic store fronts, small shop exteriors are decorated with contemporary art and flowering plants.

            I seldom see people walking the shopping areas in suburbia, but here, the sidewalks were filled with teen shoppers, friendly dogs on leashes, and college students sipping on lattes.

            Along residential streets, bungalow-style houses reminded me of times when people sat on their front porches and greeted neighbors out for an evening stroll.

Conversation for the Soul

            Wayne and Theresa's Montrose house is on a quiet side street, and they'd renovated and updated the inside of their bungalow while not losing the house's charm.

            Sitting in comfortable couches, we caught up on what our now-grown children were doing, where they were working or going to school and the many changes in our lives over the last 10 years.  

            Looking at the clock, Theresa and I decided to grab a quick dinner as Wayne was heading off to his neighborhood softball practice.

            We stopped at Aladdin's Mediterranean Grill in the heart of Montrose. At first, I wasn't too sure about the place as the inside looks like it hasn't been touched since the 1970s.

            With Theresa's encouragement, I got in the serving line and saw foods I recognized. The servers were knowledgeable, the service was quick and the food was delicious.

            Over hummus and freshly baked pita bread, we delved more deeply into the conversation the three of us had started earlier. Like before, we didn't talk about work or whine about the size of our hips.

            We discussed life. Our hopes. Our dreams. What's important. What's trivial.

            I think the eclectic atmosphere Montrose weaves – art reflects life and quirky is the spicy seasoning in life – allowed us to step away from a surface exchange of information and enjoy a philosophical conversation about what's important.

            We can have a sterile discourse over Facebook, but genuine dialogue is best when breaking bread together and thinking deeply and honestly about what we want out of life.

            Sometimes starting that conversation is as simple as remembering that right around the corner, there's a big, huge world out there.

            We just have to be willing to peek over the line.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Our Grand Lady - The George Memorial

            For those living in the Richmond area, the George Memorial Library is the most recognizable landmark around. The curved roof, visible for miles, has stood watch over the community for over 25 years, and thousands visit the George every week.

            Starting Sunday, the GML will be closed through Sept. 29 for modernization and renovations, and I'll truly miss visiting this grand lady.

            Libraries have come a long way since the days when the only way to have new books to read was to wait for the bookmobile to come down the road.

            Where I grew up, the library was an old, three-story building, and formidable granite stairs led to a front door that required brute strength to open.

            I remember how our whispered voices echoed throughout the rotunda. Mostly I remember the special smell that accompanies older libraries – that of musty books and printers' ink.

            People who came to the library with a mission hung out at the card catalog tables where cabinets with skinny drawers held the road map to information.

            If you wanted to know about the life of Benjamin Franklin, you went to the drawer, found the section on Franklin, Ben and then wrote down a string of numbers so you could walk up and down the library aisles, hoping the book would be there.  

            Then it was back to those hard tables and chairs so we could write down the information, always making sure to copy down all the numbers on the card so we could document our work.

            Even though I visited the library numerous times for book reports, for me, libraries were fun places. There was always the relaxing adventure of browsing through the aisles all by myself and picking out three or four novels that looked promising.

            When it was time to go, I'd hand my books over to a stern librarian who'd take my paper card with the metal plate and slide it into a machine. From there, a card was punched with the due date and slipped into an envelope on the back cover of the book.

 

A New Look

            Libraries today are a far cry from those days. Instead of dark and foreboding institutions, new libraries are open and airy, and the George found a balance between the old and the new.

             Children are encouraged to play with blocks, puzzles and toys, and adults catch up on the latest magazines and newspapers in bright, cozy reading areas.         

            There's still the mandatory quiet in the library, but that's balanced with the sounds of children laughing during Story Time and patrons tapping away on computers.           

            In some ways, the George was like going home to our grandparents' home. Sure the couches were a little worn, but we loved snuggling up there with a book, just like we did at our grandparents' home.

            The elevators are a little slow at the George and the granite in the restrooms is showing its age. I'll miss that old smell of the musty books, but with the GML upgrade, we'll be able to sit around tables, sip coffee and browse the Internet through the library's Wi-Fi system.

             Instead of a stern librarian giving us the "stink eye" if we misplaced our library card, we'll have a modernized system where we can download e-books and MP3 files while our coffee cools.

            The George will continue to look out over Fort Bend County, but she'll now do so with the latest and greatest libraries have to offer.

            She deserves some sprucing up. Take care, ma'am, until we see you in September.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.